


We will be

by Ninjaninaiii



Series: Les sauterelles des étoiles [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Asexual Relationship, Fluff and flirting, Gen, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, many poly-ams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninjaninaiii/pseuds/Ninjaninaiii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part one: E/R. A university campus coffee-shop AU. Classical puns and flirtations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We will be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mipping](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mipping/gifts).



> Heavily inspired by my own university and its people/campus, Royal Holloway. Written with Batcii's character designs in mind. [http://ninjaninaiii.tumblr.com/post/102183292353/batcii-finally-done-final-character-designs]. Written with film and Brick in mind.

The Candlestick Tutorials were so named because they ran at night and, in order to be let in, you had to bring your own source of light, whether natural or man-made. There were no rules as to what you could bring: a desklamp, a torch, on one memorable occasion an entire set of set lights, but their leader, the one who founded and taught the tutorials always brought two ornate candles and, ever the romantics, his students tended to follow suit. From tealights to christmas-scented sticks, most tutorials passed in a flickering light, the low hum of their lecturer’s voice, the scratch and click of pens, the intermittent match or lighter re-lighting an accidentally blown-out candle.

The affair was very much a fight-club type job: open to all, their lecturer said, but too big and he wouldn’t be able to teach them all their requested subjects. Their lecturer was an astounding one. From Maths through English to Politics, give him one week and he could organise a session for your subject, and teach you better than any of your actual lecturers. He would deny this, when complimented, deflect by saying that the students who came to his tutorials only thought he was better because they had already been taught it, they just needed help being reminded, and that that was his job.

He wouldn’t accept payment, but after a couple of weeks the Candlestick goers started to notice a food-bank donation box just beside the door, and their lecturer would always leave with a full box and a smile on his face.

-

Holy land to the student, the Musain was not only an on-campus Starbucks, but also sported a bubble-tea vendor, and jobs there were like golddust. By the second week, Grantaire regretted accepting the job. A job, it turned out, was a job, and students, though usually polite to their baristas, tended to be snappy in mornings, before exams, before deadlines, before lectures, at pretty much every time on campus.

It also didn’t help that Eponine used up his free drink pass, or that every time other than the five minutes before/ after the hour started, the Musain was dead, and he got bored easily.

He couldn’t even text new innuendos about tapioca balls at Eponine because his boss had a nasty habit of walking in and out of the place at irregular times, and he’d already been cautioned about it twice. Three times, Madame Houcheloup had said, and he’d be out to fend against his student loans by himself. What Madame Houcheloup didn’t know was that Grantaire was already screwing her over by taking twice as many shifts than was legal, so ha, take that and your dumb phone rules.

It was to here Grantaire was walking to when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Professor Javert, and Grantaire felt a cold chill run up his spine as he remembered the assignment he hadn’t done that was due in- Grantaire glanced at his phone- about three days ago. Javert was notorious for failing his students if they handed the things in a second over the deadline. So far nobody had bailed on a deadline since fresher’s week, and Grantaire dreaded to think what kind of rage he’d be inspiring.

Picking up his pace, Grantaire regretted his stupidly recognisable fashion choices, tugging his beanie lower down his forehead, typing furiously into his phone as if replying to a series of incredibly important emails. He risked a glance towards the professor, and paled as Javert met his eye with the look of a cat that’s about to pounce on a poor, poor, out-of-its-depths mouse. Grantaire stumbled but powered on, Musain in sight. He could escape Javert’s wrath under the protection of the Madame, who had a longstanding feud with the man, only a couple of steps to go-

As he reached the entryway, he made to jump down the steps that led to the doorway- but- a group of students were congregating in the doorway, barring his way- Grantaire puffed out a frustrated sigh, not wanting to be caught, not when he was so close- a thought lit up his mind, and his steps regained speed.

Girl code, girl code, Grantaire repeated in his mind as he slipped himself under the arm of one of the people, eyes scanning for someone he recognised but coming up blank. One thing Eponine and Cosette had taught him was to respect the girl code, and he hoped this goldilocks, with tight blonde curls tied into a neat ponytail, could understand his desperation.

“Hey babe, thanks for waiting,” he tried, glancing over his shoulder and ignoring the stifled laughter emitting from the group.

Another fact well-known about Javert was that he shied from any acts of affection, especially when committed by his students, and Grantaire was satisfied to find that the bloodlust was fading from the man’s face, replaced with a snarl, though he hadn’t stalled quite yet.

“I think you have the wrong person,” came the voice of his saviour, and Grantaire clenched a little bit tighter on the material of their shirt.

“What, you don’t even recognise your own-” Grantaire went to turn a look of adopted affection on the person, whose voice indicated that they were probably less of a blonde, more a blond, and a wary one at that, but- holy shit.

“Oi oi, what’s this, E has a boyfriend? Nobody told me about this,” said the bald guy opposite, grinning until he was whacked by the girl next to him.

“Girl code, Bossuet,” the girl said, accompanied by the nod of the tiny asian on the other side of bald guy.

At the mention of the phrase, the group dynamic changed, blond’s arm curling around Grantaire’s neck without further hesitation, pulling him close. The group crowded closer, tiny asian cracking a joke about kittens that Grantaire didn’t really understand but caused the group to burst into the most natural-sounding fake laughter Grantaire had ever heard.

Bald-guy dubbed Bossuet craned his neck around Grantaire, squinting. “He looks like he’s whispering something to himself.”

A guy who had the lumberjack aesthetic down to pat elbowed the kid next to him, poncho and dreadlocks swaying with the movement. “Yo Jehan what did scary-man say?”

“Jehan can lip read like an eagle that knows how to lip read,” Bossuet explained to Grantaire, earning another whack from the girl, who Grantaire was starting to like.

“‘Next time you’re dead’?” Jehan supplied, tilting their head.

“Oh god, I’m doomed. You guys are witness to my murder. RIP.”

“We can hide you,” Tiny asian said, looking the most earnest Grantaire had seen anyone look before. “You can come and live with me and Bossuet and Musichetta, you can have the sofa, though it’s a little dirty, we can clean it for you-”

“What did you do to inspire the wrath of scary-man?” Lumberjack interrupted when it looked like tiny asian had finished.

“He’s Javert,” Grantaire said, and at the name, the entire group turned to look, totally subtly following the man’s departure, even Blond shifting slightly to cop a look at the infamous professor out of his natural habitat.

“That’s Javert?” Bossuet asked, shuddering.

“I heard he doesn’t leave the department building unless it’s a wednesday full moon,” Jehan whispered.

“I heard he waters down his coffee with his student’s tears,” Lumberjack replied, echoing the quiet tone.

“Blood, more like,” Grantaire murmured, wondering how he could get away with his fault, but each scenario ended with a stunning, sunset-lit view of his grave.

“Would you like us to escort you to your destination?” asked Tiny asian.

“You’re here for your shift, are you not?” Blond asked, and Grantaire would admit he startled at remembering how nice the man’s voice was. But also-

“Oh right, shit - I’m late,” Blond dropped his arm, allowing Grantaire to push through the group and into the building, turning briefly to wave his thanks. “‘preciate the save!”

He was followed into the building by a general chorus of “Good to meet you”s, “My name’s Joly/Bahorel,” and “Call us if you need us”’s.

“Of course I know him, he’s bubble-tea guy,” was the last thing Grantaire heard before the double doors swished closed, and he felt a little bit of pride bubble at him, that someone like Blond would remember who he was.

-

Enjolras did not like coffee. He disliked the taste of it black, was possibly lactose intolerant, and could not bring himself to spend twenty-five extra pence on a shot of flavour, though he had once tried Joly’s caramel-hazelnut concoction and had appreciated it.

Enjolras did not, however, like mornings, and could tolerate them better when injected with either enough caffeine or sugar in order to kickstart his body. He had tried to make instant coffee once, and had somehow managed to add salt instead of sugar, and was fairly sure the milk had been off. Even the memory made him cringe.

Enjolras also disliked the wait at the Starbucks on the other side of campus, the one situated in the English department and so was full-throttle pretty much twenty-four seven, much unlike the cozier, quieter, all-round calmer Musain just a short walk away.

All in all, it was safest to wake just as early, spend the ridiculous Consumerism prices in the Musain and to swallow the bitter black liquid, ignoring any student who may want to talk to him, friend or otherwise, until at least noon.

That had been before bubble-tea man had started working at the Musain. Bubble-tea man was short and scrubby and of dubious cleanliness for someone who worked in the catering industry, and if Enjolras was more awake any time he saw him, he would be in a right mind to tell him so. As it was, Enjolras was pleased that bubble-tea man looked just as unhappy to be there as he did, not being able to stand the animated worker he had replaced.

Bubble-tea man did, however, comment on Enjolras’ dead-eyed look more than once, which irked him, but bubble-tea man also seemed partial to giving him free shots of syrup when he thought Enjolras couldn’t see, so, he wasn’t really sure what to make of him.

So of course he knew who bubble-tea man was, and to where he was going, because every time Enjolras was in the Musain, bubble-tea man was making bubble-tea.

What surprised him however, was that bubble-tea man was not just bubble-tea man, but a student, and a student under Javert, which would make him a Classicist. Enjolras had just assumed that bubble-tea man was manual labour, which made him think he needed to reassess his internal prejudices.

-

“Enjolras, huh, pretty name.” Enjolras frowned at bubble-tea guy’s apparent psychic skills, and it must have shown. “I was going to keep calling you Goldilocks, but you pay with your college card so…”

“Ah.” Enjolras frowned as he shuffled his papers, bubble-tea guy’s shadow falling over the work he had laid out over a table.

“You, uh, finished with that?” Bubble-tea guy asked, pointing at Enjolras’ now cold mug of coffee, and he frowned. He had meant to finish it, but today had not been a free-syrup day, and he hadn’t felt particularly up for force-feeding it to himself.

“Yes, thank you.” Bubble-tea guy raised an eyebrow at what Enjolras assumed was the leftovers he was throwing away for not the first time in their acquaintance and he suddenly felt the need to explain himself. “It isn’t that you lack skill in coffee-making... it’s just that-”

“You know we like, sell things other than coffee, right?”

“I-” Enjolras didn’t blush, but he certainly restrained himself from squirming in his seat under the man’s inquisitive gaze. Somehow ordering something other than coffee had seemed like… giving in.

“Having fruit tea doesn’t make you any less of a man, Goldilocks. Next time order a bubble tea, it’s full of sugar, enough to wake you up for a nine AM for sure.”

“...I’m not entirely sure what it is.” Enjolras looked back down at his Politics and International Relations seminar questions, as if they might answer him instead and get rid of the distraction hovering above him. Not that, Enjolras duly noted, he particularly found bubble-tea man a distraction, more that he was distracting, and it was distracting to think as to why it did not bother him to be distracted by him as opposed to by Joly or Marius.

“You come in here every day for three months and you don’t know what bubble tea actually is?” the man asked, snorting. “It’s literally just tea… with tapioca in it.”

Enjolras nodded. That made sense, he supposed. “The black balls?” When he didn’t get a reply, he looked up to see the man was biting back a laugh. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

“Oh no, it’s just, y’know, black balls, always er… cracks me up. Maybe you don’t. You don’t strike me as a balls-joke kind of man, Goldilocks- Enjolras,” the man corrected, looking away. “Whatever.”

“The people you met the other day refer to me as E if it is easier for you to remember.”

“Oh right yeah, Baldy said that.”

“Baldy? You mean Bossuet?”

“Uh yeah, something like that.”

“No, his name is Bossuet.”

“I- yeah, yeah it was a joke.”

“Right.” Enjolras bit his lip. “...You should come to our meetings on mondays and fridays. You’ll be able to make friends with them.”

“You say that like you’re not part of their group.”

“Part of their group but friends… well.” Enjolras tightened his ponytail self-consciously. “You’ll see if you come.”

“Uh- okay, yeah, maybe, I dunno. I’ll see what’s happening. Fridays?”

“And mondays. Here. After you close up.” Enjolras was gratified to win a smile out of bubble-tea man, and a hesitant nod. “What’s your-” Enjolras’ request as to the man’s name (so he could stop referring to him by his occupation,) was cut off by a look of pure delight shot over his shoulder, and Enjolras turned to see a security guard walk in.

“Yo, sorry, I’ve gotta catch Fauchelevent before some first year steals him, I’ll see you later, yeah?” Enjolras nodded, but the man was already gone, meeting Fauchelevent halfway across the room.

Enjolras knew Fauchelevent as the security guard who helped close the Musain on the not-so-infrequent times the ABC ran over too long, but he knew the guard’s large heart and charitable nature meant he also volunteered as a tutor slash agony aunt in his freetime, quashing exam stress with his calming words, and going over any number of subjects. It seemed there was nothing the man could not do, including, as Enjolras watched him now, helping to lift sacks of coffee beans from the general storage-room to the back room dedicated to the café.

While bubble-tea man looked like he was struggling with carrying one sack, Fauchelevent hefted what looked like it amounted to seven or eight onto his shoulders and under his arms, without looking like he was breaking a sweat. It was mesmerising, certainly, and Enjolras could see he was not the only one in the room openly staring, but he found his eyes slipping from Fauchelevent’s frankly miraculous feat to the slightly sweating, much smaller man beside him.

Enjolras found himself wondering what the man’s field of study was. The dried paint that flecked the man’s jeans might hint at Classical pottery, perhaps, Archeology or the like, but many artsy types were also Philosophical, were they not? Or more simply, Literature? Bubble-tea man seemed the type who could probably understand Jehan’s mythology laden poetic speech. Or perhaps he defeated looks-based expectations and was an Ancient Historian. Enjolras longed to ask, having raised the question now and never satisfied unless answered. But he and Fauchelevent were discussing something, something Enjolras could not quite overhear, (he dismayed only for a beat that he would even consider eavesdropping,) and so he returned to his notes.

Which were. Hm. He must have been tapping the page with his pen while he’d been staring, (he’d been staring,) and now his notes looked like a Seurat painting, though with less artistic flare and more… random dots. The Jehan part of his mind told him the pattern was suspiciously heart-shaped, but his Jehan part was usually irrelevant at best and flamboyantly wrong at worst, so he quashed the thought. Either way, he was not getting any work done here, so he packed up his things and left, forcing himself not to glance at bubble-tea and Fauchelevent as he passed.

-

Enjolras found he wound up at the Musain more often than not these days, and though he and BTM did not chat as they had done that once, Enjolras was given a smile no other customer was given, and now had a “usual”.

This morning wasn’t a particularly bad one, nor had he spent long hours the night before planning either an essay or a revolution, so Enjolras was relatively awake when he arrived at the front of the queue, pleased that he was last in the line and that nobody was behind him: perhaps then BTM might afford him a conversation. He was given his nod and his smile, which he returned with a mimicked action, apparently to BTM’s surprise, and handed over his college card.

“Er- hm.” BTM swiped the card again, but he continued frowning at the till, then looked up, sheepish. “You seem to be on minus money on your card. You have cash?”

Enjolras patted his pockets as if he expected to find something there, despite never having carried a wallet around campus with him, nor carrying cash outside of his wallet. “...No.”

“Oh. Well uh.” BTM handed back the college card, and Enjolras was glad again that they were the only two in the room for the sheer awkwardness of the situation. Not knowing what to do, Enjolras stepped back and scratched his neck.

“I have to get to Non-State Violence. Thank you anyway.” Enjolras cringed now, as he slowly backed away. Where were his public speaking skills? Where were his usually lightning fast reaction speeds? He looked a fool.

BTM didn’t seem to know what to do either, so he waved, looked at his hand like it had betrayed him and dropped it, then looked back at Enjolras to find him still there, still watching, and Enjolras noted a blush. “Oh god, ‘Ponine is going to kill me. I can give you my free one if you want? Actually no, don’t answer that, you’ll probably say no, come here.”

“I can’t accept something that might get you in trouble,” Enjolras said, still rooted to the spot about five metres away, but BTM had ducked behind the counter and was re-emerging with a plastic cup.

“You come here often enough, imagine this is like a reward card deal. Ten stamps and you get a free one. I can only do bubble tea though, the Starbucks shit is like worth two or something apparently.”

Enjolras found himself nodding, not exactly following, but deciding he could accept BTM’s words, no matter what they were.

“What flavour do you want?” BTM asked, pointing at the large board above their heads with his sharpie. “Kumquat’s good, or like matcha is the standard? Though that has milk and you can’t drink that right? So maybe peach or something. What’s your favourite fruit?” BTM asked.

“I don’t have a favourite fruit,” Enjolras replied, tilting his head to glance at the board. “How did you know I couldn’t drink milk?” he addressed the second at BTM, who just shrugged.

BTM paused for a second, looking suddenly horrified, but then pulled himself together. “Your longing looks at the froth machine aren’t subtle?”

Enjolras went back to looking at the long list of fruit, half of which he didn’t think he could picture, let alone imagine eating. “I think i’m allergic,” Enjolras said, finding the words were now coming to his mouth when before he could barely string two together. “But Bossuet made fun of a friend who chose soya milk before, and I didn’t want to ostracise myself over my dairy intolerance.”

Enjolras’ gaze dropped back to the barista when the silence stretched for a couple of seconds longer than even he knew was socially acceptable. BTM was covering his entire face with his hand and shaking. “Are you okay? Have I offended you?”

“Jesus you’re fucking- you look like a- you know, like, perfect man person, like untouchable, and then you come up with things like- you don’t want your friends thinking you’re weak because you have soya milk?” BTM’s hand dragged down his face, pulling at his stubble as he revealed his wide grin. “Shall we start you off on vanilla? With soy milk?”

Astounded by the man’s reaction, or, less astounded, more completely overwhelmed, Enjolras nodded, brows knitting in a confused-not-angry frown. “You want that cold or warm?” Enjolras nodded. “...that was multiple choice, man, warm?” Enjolras nodded again, it made little difference.

“Right, so one warm soy vanilla. Uh. Yeah. Okay, I’m going to give you the pearls but you don’t have to eat them if you don’t like, okay?”

Enjolras nodded. At the back of his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously Musichetta-like scolded him for having completely destroyed his cool, cold exterior in a matter of seconds. He pushed it down to reside with the Joly and Jehan voices that were currently waxing lyrical about BTM’s smile.

“...I know I’m an extremely charming and attractive man, and that obviously you’re just flustered by my good looks, but you’ve not said anything for a while and I’m slightly concerned by how you’ve been staring at me this entire time.”

It was only when BTM put the made-drink on the table that Enjolras realised that he had been staring, and for the approximately three minutes it took to make the drink.

“I- I’m not- you’re- I’m sorry. ...thank you.” Enjolras picked up the cup and stared at it. “It’s sealed.”

“Yeah, you- okay, you get the straw and you pierce it. Attack the film. Try to aim for the centre or you’ll get hot vanilla all over you...” Enjolras was amused to watch BTM turn red, though as to why, he was at a loss.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, no, of course you wouldn’t pick that up, okay, don’t talk to a classics student about innuendos, carry on, aim to stab a hole with your straw. ...God why is bubble tea so sexual.”

Enjolras did as he was commanded, BTM telling him to “channel his revolutionary energy” into the blow, but pulled his first stab and the straw bent in half, barely denting the plastic film.

“Rookie mistake, what did I say, Goldilocks,” BTM laughed, watching him over the bar with his chin in his palms, elbows on the counter. “Violence is the answer.”

Enjolras tried again, and this time he was successful, giving him a curious warm feeling and startling a “Ha!” out of himself.

He showed his work to a still-grinning barista, who laughed. “Congrats, now tell me if you like the damned thing.”

Enjolras took a small sip, picky even now as an adult, but smiled. “It’s sweet.”

BTM rolled his eyes, but his own smile didn’t fade. “You’re ten minutes late to your lecture, I hope you’re a fast runner.”

Enjolras couldn’t find the desire to care. He walked to his lecture with his usual stride, not wanting to spill any of the liquid.

-

“Feuilly?” Enjolras could feel a smile he didn’t know he’d been wearing start to slip.

“You seem shocked, E. Must I remind you I’ve been working at this institution since before you were enrolled? Before you’d even taken your GCSEs, probably. God, that makes me feel old. Oh man I’m ancient.”

“I hadn’t forgotten,” Enjolras said, frowning. “It was just… I expected BTM, I didn’t think you took shifts in the Musain when the dining hall was open.”

“BTM?”

“Bubble-tea man. I-” Enjolras stopped. He’d shortened the name because he found he’d been saying it quite often in his mind, and had decided the initialism fit somehow. He felt himself flush, a novel experience, a sensation he was not used to. “Brown hair, brown eyes, so high?” Enjolras held his hand to his shoulder.

“Brown hair, brown eyes, right, like that doesn’t describe everyone in Les Amis.”

“Pretty?” Enjolras tried.

“Christ, his name is Grantaire, you know that yes?” Feuilly asked, tying his apron slowly, and speaking as if he wasn’t sure Enjolras was the man he’d known for years. “I’m not sure whether he’ll be pleased you called him pretty or pissed that you seem to think he’s a head shorter than you. He’s like my height, E.”

“He seemed smaller…”

“You’re embarrassing, E. God. What do you want, your usual?”

“Uh, no, er, warm vanilla bubble tea please. Regular. Soy.”

“Oh god, he’s affecting you.”

-

“You’re looking particularly godlike today, Apollo,” Grantaire greeted as E entered the Musain, gold-weave shirt catching the light of the too-hot April sun and, as Jehan had put it one memorable afternoon last summer, “cast him in a seraphic radiance.”

The shirt was a particularly thin one, was cool when the wind blew. Somehow, Grantaire was still in his thick, longsleeved work shirt, and no doubt his hoodie and beanie had accompanied him here. “I don’t understand how you tolerate the heat in those clothes.”

“If it were anyone but you I’d come back with something about my smouldering body, but somehow I don’t think you’d get the joke. You want an iced tea?”

“Warm vanilla, please.”

“E, it’s like 24 degrees out, you can’t want a warm vanilla.”

“I tried the iced one and I didn’t like it. Warm please.”

“You’re a child. I can’t believe I fell-” Grantaire choked and blinked, shaking his head as if he had been about to say something unbelievably stupid. “I can’t believe I thought you were cool.” Grantaire sighed and got to work making the order, ruefully handing over the hot drink. “You’re insane, I tell you. You tell a guy to start off on Vanilla and he gets hooked.”

“If you come to a meeting, I’ll try a different flavour.”

“Are you selling your beverage choice to make me come to your social justice warrior meetings? Jesus E, that’s like, prostitution or something.”

“Would it make you come?”

“Okay, we need to have a talk about you saying things that are totally innuendoes.”

“Are all classicists this filthy-minded?” Enjolras asked, all but sitting on the countertop as he drunk his drink, trying to ignore the fact that Grantaire was watching him from the corner of his eye.

“We had a lecture about the rise of the phallus today. So yeah. Pretty much.”

“I assumed all of you wore tweed, and read Aristotle.”

“What is this, our darling Politician making sweeping generalisations? What are we to do if even you have begun to fail us!” Enjolras felt his fingers curl into involuntary fists around his drink, which only proved to make Grantaire laugh, and pat his hand. “Aristotle was a misogynistic dick by the way.”

“You seem to have an obsession with them, so I’m not particularly surprised.” Enjolras felt a sense of triumph at the spluttering Grantaire was huffing out, gratified by the effect he could have on the man.

“Well you have an obsession with making me come to your damned meetings.”

“I’d like to get to know you when you’re not on duty and obliged to be nice to me,” Enjolras said, without missing a beat. It was true, after all, and nothing to be shy about. He straightened off of the counter and smiled. “See you tomorrow. Think about coming.”

-

“I’m fucked, Ep.” It was dead in the Musain, the only time Eponine graced Grantaire with her presence, and he buried his head in his hands.

“I thought you said Javert let you off? Jesus R, did you forget another assignment?”

“No, no,” surprising all, including himself, R had been getting decent grades the last month, probably due in some part to his new fascination with certain Homeric heroes and gods that bore a slight resemblance to his crush, his crush. R didn’t crush, but alternate words made him wince, this was getting out of hand, and he moaned. “I’m fucked.”

“Eloquent. How did you swing the Javert thing by the way? We could totally make a mint off of first-years in deep Javert shit.”

“I dunno, something about something something second chances, justice, vengeance, morals, I nodded and ran when he finished.”

Eponine hummed and Grantaire was glad there were no follow-up questions, only the ping of texts sent to and from her phone. “Has this got anything to do with bouncy golden curls and an obnoxiously red waistcoat?”

“No? Yes. What- ...why?”

“Because he’s been standing here trying to get your attention for a couple of minutes without interrupting your nap. He’s cute, where’d you find him?”

Grantaire groaned.

Eponine was the worst. He wanted to remain with his face on the counter, to ignore that the world had kept going while he died here. He eventually managed to pick himself up, avoiding meeting E’s eye.

“Enjolras, Eponine, Ep, E. Usual?”

“Were you waiting?” Enjolras asked Eponine, who just shook her head, amused. “Then er, yes, please.” He handed over his college-card, Grantaire still not raising his eyes, but shooting Ep withering gazes for her sniggering.

“I see you’ve got money on it this time,” Eponine said, leaning over the counter.

Grantaire cringed, turning nearly the same colour as Enjolras. “You steal my free pass every day, ‘Ponine, can you not forgive me donating it to someone else once?”

“No.” Eponine gave Enjolras an up-and-down and shrugged. “Want to buy me a drink to buy my silence?”

“Ep!” Grantaire objected, as Enjolras said “Yes.”

Grantaire groaned. “Don’t listen to her, Goldilocks, she’s already had a free drink today, don’t warm her ego by buying her a second.”

“To make up for her previous sacrifice.” Enjolras handed his card over again.

“Well then, make it a large and give me every topping you have,” Eponine grinned, shoving her phone in her pocket. “This is great,” she told Enjolras. “You should come more often.”

“I come here twice a day,” Enjolras said, confused. “At least.”

Eponine stopped, then her grin grew. “Oh really? Well. Lucky for some, eh?” She pulled her phone out again and resumed texting, occasionally looking up at either Grantaire or Enjolras, nodding, and looking back down again.

Grantaire got the distinct feeling that she was up to no good, but Enjolras looked like he was floundering, completely lost by the meaning of Eponine’s unsubtle looks. “She’s probably asking Cosette who you are so she can eventually blackmail you into buying all of her meals.” Grantaire told him as he handed over his drink.

“You know Cosette?” Enjolras said, thanking him. “This does not bode well.”

“Oh trust me, that look right there means that you’re going to have to start budgeting for at least three more mouths for the next month.”

“At least,” Eponine confirmed.

“How’d you meet ‘our darling Cosette’?” Grantaire asked as he mixed the drinks, never able to say the words without mimicking Eponine’s parents. The Thenardiers had babysat the girl while they were kids, and he’d never been able to sponge the way Ep’s dad had talked about her.

“Er, her…. Marius. They attend our meetings.” Enjolras seemed to be relaxing in Eponine’s company, a comfortable, sort-of-smile forming on his face. “Another reason you should attend. You too, if you’d like.”

“Not my scene,” Eponine said, voice disinterested.

Grantaire placed the drinks on the counter. “It’s filled with cute people, Ep, you should go.”

Enjolras let out an exasperated sigh. “You’ll recommend it to others and yet you still don’t turn up yourself?”

“What can I say? I’m building up for my first time.”

Enjolras’ straw completely missed the cup and it folded against the counter.

“I have to go.”

Enjolras walked out of the café with glazed eyes.

Eponine didn’t stop laughing for a good ten minutes.

-

Enjolras sat up when a hand waved in front of his face, a chorus of sniggers accompanying his startled look.

“Sorry? I didn’t hear that.” Another bout of sniggers and Enjolras tilted his head, bemused but highly afraid.

“We were just saying that you’d been staring at the counter for a good fifteen minutes now, and that if you didn’t close your mouth soon you could start a full-blown fly colony.”

Enjolras wiped at his mouth, frowning despite knowing he’d not allow any kind of bug enter his mouth, conscious or daydreaming. He coughed, blushing, when he remembered what exactly had started his haze, eyes darting back to where Grantaire was making tea.

About fifteen minutes ago, Grantaire had put on an apron, and in doing so, his t-shirt had ridden up, revealing a triangle of skin.

It wasn’t a particularly erotic triangle of skin, it was a good few inches up from Grantaire’s waistline, but somehow that made it seem even more illicit. More personal. Nevermind the fact that anyone looking in that direction would be able to see the skin.

For the however many’th time, he resolved to go and tell Grantaire that his shirt was askew.

This time, someone clicked their fingers before his eyes and Enjolras sat up again, not knowing he’d slumped, nor how long it had been. Sniggers were starting to turn to sighs, which was never a good sign, not when Joly was around.

-

“I don’t think it’s legal for me to give you a warm drink.”

“Warm vanilla,” Enjolras insisted, smile pulling into a smug, one-sided grin.

“You’re fucking wild. If you die of heatstroke, know that it’s on my head forever.”

“Seriously? Threatening a valued customer?”

“Valued?” Grantaire snorted. “You hardly give the job variety.”

“I’m fairly sure my custom alone pays your wages.” Even saying the words, Enjolras winced. It sounded desperate, almost, like revealing his facade. It was starting to get slightly obviously that he wasn’t coming for the warm vanilla tea.

“One day you’ll tell me you don’t even come for the warm vanilla I so painstakingly craft for you.”

Enjolras’s smile nearly burst Grantaire’s heart.

-

“You should fuck with him,” had been Feuilly’s advice on how to get closer to Grantaire. “Mix things up.”

So, the next morning, Enjolras ditched his usual shirts for the only t-shirt he owned (that didn’t have a charity logo emblazoned on it,) donned the gray-hooded lumberjack-esque jacket that Cosette had told him brought out the colour of his hair (he still didn’t know what this meant,) and ditched class.

“E? Should you not be in that class about destroying social constructs?”

“I-” Enjolras realised he should probably have drafted some responses. “Yes. It was cancelled.” So much for seeming ‘cool’.

“Oh. Cool. Usual?”

“No, er-” Enjolras looked at the board and frowned. “Lemon Ice tea?”

Grantaire’s grin made everything worth it. Even the notch on his previously perfect attendance track record (their lecturer marked the class present if they informed her they had attended a rally instead of attending a lecture.) “Are you sure?”

At Enjolras’ nod, Grantaire raised a hand to his forehead and mock-swooned, pretending to fall to the floor behind the counter.

By the way Enjolras’ heart picked up like it was a sledgehammer, it would be incredibly hard to deny that he had developed feelings for Grantaire. He handed over his college card and tried hard not to stare.

“Nice outfit… you trying to go undercover or something?”

“Why would I need to do such a thing?”

“I don’t know- jealous lover wondering why you spent so much time here?” Grantaire snorted as he said it, getting to work brewing the tea.

“I don’t have a lover-”

Grantaire, apparently not having finished, stalled when Enjolras talked over him- “The jacket brings out the colour of your eyes--”

“..I’ll trust your artist’s judgement--”

“--No lover? Pretty boy like you--”

“--Thank you-- you have nice eyes too--”

“...I’ll have an iced matcha with red beans.”

Grantaire nearly gave himself whiplash with how fast he turned to grab a blender and the ingredients. Eponine waved at E, grinning.

Enjolras tried to iron his features, suddenly conscious, now being observed, that his face had lit up during the exchange, that he had been wearing a rare smile. His eyes dragged, almost guiltily towards Eponine, whose own smile was far too smug not to have been thinking the same thing: that he was smitten. She bounced her eyebrows at him and he tried his hardest not to burn with the force of the sun.

“Nice jacket. Brings out the colour of your eyes.”

“So I’ve been told. ...thank you.”

“Oh really.” Eponine seemed to have perfected the kind of faux disinterest that you knew was a version of I-told-you-so.

“Iced lemon tea.” Grantaire placed drink and straw on the counter, immediately turning back to continue with his non-existent tasks.

E nodded, as if Grantaire could see the gesture of thanks, but not wanting to make a further fool of himself, he pocketed drink and still-packaged straw. “I hope you both- er- have a good day.”

As Enjolras went to leave, he caught sight of Grantaire’s lips moving and cocked his head. Grantaire seemed to be emitting a low moaning sound. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that?” Grantaire seemed to colour as his attention snapped to Enjolras. His mouth shut as he shook his head. “...Are you in pain?”

This only seemed to cause more red to flush in Grantaire’s cheeks and he turned his back on Enjolras, going to fiddle with a machine at the back of the booth, much to Eponine’s apparent entertainment, going by the sheer fit of laughter currently wracking her. “I was singing, sorry, I- no, carry on, leave and ignore that happened. Please. Bye.”

Oh. “I’m sorry, I- uh, didn’t recognise the song-” Enjolras attempted to smooth back his hair, not knowing whether to plead Eponine for help, or to ignore her completely. “If it makes you feel any better, Combeferre tells me that he once thought our bathroom was haunted by a sea-dwelling monster because of my appalling skills... and then made me watch various movies so that I could understand the reference.”

There was a small silence before Grantaire turned back, fighting a smile that he couldn’t seem to defeat. “You’re going to be late again, go on.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you, I hope- er-”

“...It does make me feel better, yeah.” Grantaire made a shooing motion, and Enjolras obeyed, though not without turning back a couple of times to make sure Grantaire didn’t now hate him.

-

“He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you, E.”

“He must hate me. I would hate me.”

“You hate everyone, that’s your thing. Enjolras, hater of people.”

“I don’t hate him.”

“You sound like Marius, Enjolras, take stock of that and pity me for having to put up with your shit.”

“He doesn’t attend anything I invite him to, I butcher the drinks he offers by ordering the same thing each time, I insulted his singing. He must hate me.”

“For God’s sake, I won’t put up with this- shall I ask him? I can text him-”

Feuilly nearly dropped his phone out of sheer horror as Enjolras grabbed at it- an action he’d never seen the man do in his life- “Did you just try to snatch? How old are you? Who are you?”

Enjolras seemed to be coming to himself as he stared at his own hands, which he proceeded to bury his face in. “I’m acting like Marius, you’re right.”

“Right, so you’ll stop moping, and I’ll text him. He’ll never know you’re the one who sent it.”

“Feuilly… what about Eponine, they must be in a relationship together.”

“Oh yes, homewrecker Enjolras, what a mighty sight that would be.” Feuilly sounded like he was grinning, but Enjolras couldn’t seem to muster the strength to care to check.

“Why does Enjolras look like he’s heard BoJo is his real father?” Enjolras couldn’t prevent a small chill from running down his spine, the comment giving him energy enough to shoot Jehan a look of unadulterated horror.

“E thinks R and Ep are dating,” Joly said, obviously highly amused, his legs swinging under the round table they were sat at.

Musichetta nearly choked on her drink. “You’re kidding- Eponine Ep? Thenardier? Ep and R?” Joly nodded, and half the table laughed, drawn from their own conversations into the one Enjolras thought he’d been having privately with Feuilly. “You’re joking.”

“Why would I be- they’re close, closer possibly than Marius and Cosette-” That brought about another bout of laughter, this time from the whole table, some of whom started wiping tears (real or fictional) from their eyes. Bossuet banged his fist against the desk like he’d never heard anything funnier. “-what?”

“Ah young child,” Jehan patted Enjolras’ hair, calming him with soothing strokes as if he really were a distressed child. “For one so in tune with politics, you really do know nothing about your friends.”

“Is he dating one of you?” Enjolras frowned, looking around the group of grinning faces. Bossuet, Musichetta and Joly he could probably count out, four might be a crowd, Jehan seemed to have their own agreement with Courf the last time E checked, and he’d once heard it mentioned that Feuilly and Bahorel had had something going on-

Enjolras groaned: he really had no idea what any of his friends (other than Marius and Cosette) were engaged in, relationship-wise. He was probably the go-to person for job advice, or for harsh constructive criticism on CVs and Personal Statements, could swing any of his friends a meeting with the high-society if needs must, and was generally well-liked, generally well-accepted, almost a leader. But God forbid he be asked about who they were dating.

“He’s just realised he doesn’t know who’s snogging who,” Bahorel laughed. “You could almost see his pupils changing size.”

“I don’t-”

“Joly, are you taking notes? You’ll need to know this look when your patients are lying.”

“So tell me then!” Enjolras winced at the sound of his own voice, the group quieting into a shocked silence. They’d heard him shout, of course, and get angry, mostly at them for disobeying him, for not doing as he commanded, especially during crunch time for political movements, for joking when he was serious (which was most of the time,) but he generally never included himself in conversations about personal arrangements, so this was new.

Enjolras wasn’t angry at them, he was flustered.

And they knew it.

“Ooooooh,” Bossuet cooed, elbowing Joly. “Our boy’s all a flutter!”

“Whatever will he do without the knowledge we have?” Musichetta said sadly, sending him doe-eyes. “Poor Enjolras…”

“We could tell him,” Feuilly said, obviously enjoying getting his own back. “But would that be too easy…?”

“I will buy whoever tells me first dinner for three days.” Enjolras’ cold smile, the one he reserved for harsh successes in political debates appeared when hands shot in the air, mouths closing. “Joly was first.”

All but Joly groaned as hands returned to laps or other hands, Joly leaning forwards. “R is single, it’s Ep who isn’t.”

“Eponine?” Enjolras frowned. He’d not known the woman long, but he’d never seen her communicate with anyone but Cosette and Grantaire. He was fairly certain that to have at least some sort of relationship, one had to converse with one’s partner.

“Eponine and Cosette and Marius!”

“What?” Enjolras frowned. “But Cosette and Marius- they’re always… Since when?”

“Since before uni I think?” Joly turned for confirmation, getting nods from Musichetta and Jehan.

“Cosette and Marius do the datey-datey, lovey-dovey thing… Ep and Cosette go out to clubs, Ep and Marius share… poetry? Possibly sex. They don’t really talk as much as Cosette does.”

“Look at his innocent face,” Feuilly said, taking a swig of his beer. “Poor bugger.”

“No surprise, can hardly see further than his own heart, let alone spot a polyam when it knocks him over the head.”

“You all knew?”

“They’re not talkative but it’s hardly the location of the Holy Grail.”

“So that means…”

“You and Grantaire are the only of our friends not to be in a relationship. What a shame.” Musichetta grinned, positively feline in slyness.

“Oh look, talk of the devil, here he is. Scoot over, Feuilly.” Feuilly obeyed Jehan’s commands, Joly going to sit on Bossuet’s lap to make space.

“Grantaire, you came!” There was a cheer from the table, a strange greeting for the frowning, slightly panting newcomer.

“You said there was an emergency?” R asked, taking out his phone as if it had lied to him.

“There was, we fixed it, come, sit down. Have a drink.” Three of the table indicated the free spot next to Enjolras and he stared at it like it was blatantly set with a bear trap. Resigning himself to his fate and to his friends, Grantaire sat, though not without shooing Bahorel off to get him a drink.

Enjolras sent Feuilly a desperate look while Grantaire’s attention was focused on making sure Bahorel got the right type of beer, hoping Feuilly would interpret his “see I told you he hates me, he’s sitting as far away as possible” without resorting to morse code via blink.

Feuilly rolled his eyes, took out his phone, swiped a few times and sent Bahorel a deliberately long look, making sure Enjolras caught his meaning, that he understood, and that Feuilly was a greatly long-suffering but ultimately amazing friend. Enjolras watched Bahorel check his phone, grin, then came back with two glasses and near sat on Grantaire, hardly uttering a warning “Budge.”

Scooting across the circular sofa to escape and accommodate, R in turn ended up elbowing Enjolras in the ribs, who tried to dodge and knocked over his drink, (thankfully only water,) soaking both himself, and, to his growing horror, Grantaire.

“Shit-” Enjolras stood, as if that could wring the water from his chinos. He was overwhelmed- he could hear his friends laughing, making crude comments, no more than usual but almost white-noise because of their proximity, because of his proximity to Grantaire, who Enjolras couldn’t look at, didn’t want to see his expression, disgust? Hatred? That would be what Enjolras would have felt had the same thing happened to him- He had to leave- he pushed past the two blocking him, meaning to say something about drying off but not sure if he’d voiced it- It was darker outside than he’d expected, they’d met at three, he wasn’t sure what time it was now. He looked down at his trousers, blessedly a dark colour so the wet patch wasn’t noticeable in the twilight, but the damp was sticking to him, dripping, the material against his skin uncomfortable-

“-E! For fuck’s sake- Apollo? Oh mighty prince of the sun?”

Enjolras slowed, realising as he did so he was almost running. He turned. Of course it would be the one making him panic that came to calm him.

“Fucker doesn’t respond to his name but ‘prince of the sun’ gets your attention?” Grantaire panted, catching his breath, wiping his brow with one wrist. “Are you okay?” Enjolras said nothing in response, his silence alarming compared to his usual vocality. “Dude, I need you to breathe, nod once if you’re distressed, two if you’re okay?”

Enjolras shook his head, squinting. He could make out the frown on Grantaire’s brow, hated seeing him worry.

“Okay shake if distressed, nod if okay. Breathe.”

Enjolras breathed, but couldn’t shake either way, not when he didn’t know. He didn’t want to lie to Grantaire. He took a long breath of the fresh night air and released, the tension in his muscles fading as he did so.

“If this is how you react every time you spill water, I don’t want to see what you’re like when you spill milk.”

Enjolras couldn’t help a smile, which in turn kindled one in Grantaire. “...I would... like to promise I’m not usually like this... but I’m told I’m high-strung.”

“Would you mind if I texted them to tell them you’re ok? Just… y’know, otherwise the entire bar will form a search party, and I’m kinda liking talking to you alone.” Grantaire took Enjolras’ barely perceptible smile as agreement, sending a quick ‘I caught him, I’m taking him home to safety ;)’ to Musichetta.

“Where do you live? I can walk you there, if you like.”

Enjolras thought of the room he shared with Combferre and paled- the Amis would likely avoid coming back to the room too soon, knowing them, but he did not want to be left alone, nor did he want to give rise to rumours that might worry Grantaire by inviting him to stay over…

“Would you mind accompanying me on a walk?”

“Walking I can do. Anywhere in particular?”

Enjolras shook his head, sticking his hands in his trouser pockets.

Grantaire nodded, checking the time on his phone. “I know where we can go. We’ve gotta stop at the store, first, but you’ll like it.” They took a right, emerging from densely packed forest to the campus proper. After a couple of minutes of silence, Grantaire cleared his throat. “I had a band before uni, lead-singer. Proper get-pissed, sing about your shitty life kinda get-up, get even more pissed, would say the alcohol was my muse etc etc.”

Enjolras could imagine that quite easily: Grantaire dressed all in black, adorned in silver and highlighted with red lights in a dingy club in Camden.

“Did the cover-art for our EP and everything. All splatters of oil paints. It was very artistic.” Enjolras could hear the smile in his voice, even as they both stared into the sky, avoiding tension by avoiding eye-contact.

“I’d like to hear it.”

“Oh really? Says mister ‘are you in pain’?” Enjolras winced as if he’d been punched, but Grantaire only laughed, patting him on the shoulder. “You should worry less, I thought it was just funny.”

“You should worry more,” Enjolras frowned. “I openly criticized a skill in which you thought you had ample talent…”

“Which is why I quit and became a classicist instead? No, I knew I was shit, people bought the albums for the art, not the music.”

“Still, I’d like to hear…”

“Maybe one day.”

“Which is political terminology for ‘no’.”

“So we do share something in common!”

“Bad singing and the learnt inability to say ‘no’ directly.”

“You’re never going to hear it if you keep calling it bad.”

“Your artwork, then. Though my artistic understanding is as, or perhaps more, limited than my musical.”

“This one should be easier: when I show you, you nod and say ‘oh yes, I like it very much, Grantaire, you’re an artistic genius.’”

“Understood. I shall attempt social propriety.”

“Look at me, teaching you manners.” They made a brief stop at the campus store before continuing, now armed with cans of beans and a pack of candles.

“The Candlestick Tutorials?” Enjolras asked. He’d not been to one before, but he’d heard about the unsaid-rule of bringing your own donations to the foodbank.

“It’s quiet there, but not lonely. It’s the perfect place to zone out, like a lecture, only you don’t have to listen.”

“Run by Mr. Fauchelevent. Does he not tire of those obviously not listening to him?”

“You’ve met Cosette, right?” Enjolras, confused by the tangent, nodded. “Fauchelevent’s her dad. He’s like a more even-tempered, less openly-passionate Cosette.”

“I had no idea.” Enjolras had known that the security man was more than just muscle mass, but to be a friend’s father. “But she shares a house with Eponine, does her father commute to work?”

“Nah, he lives here, but she wanted to try what halls were like, said she loves her ‘papa’ and all, but he can be a little… overprotective.”

Cosette had talked about her papa at great length, but to think Fauchelevent was him? Enjolras couldn’t imagine the security guard treating any child like a princess. Fauchelevent seemed kind, grandfatherly, a fountain of wisdom, but not like a man who’d, Enjolras had been told, willingly played dress-up with a doll for entire days on end.

Fauchelevent looked up as they entered and nodded slightly, acknowledging them with a small smile without stopping his talk on rock formations. It was dark in the lecture theatre, but Grantaire was used to the lack of light, easily making his way to the front in order to light their candles using the two large ones owned by Fauchelevent at the front.

Enjolras seemed less sure about his footing and so, taking the chance, Grantaire gripped his hand, leading him towards the seats he’d taken to using when he came to the tutorials alone. When they sat down, he loosened his grip slightly, but Enjolras didn’t retract his hand, so Grantaire kept their hands on his knee.

He nodded off a couple of times, but each time he woke, he was pleased to find Enjolras had kept his careful grip around his fingers so that they didn’t slip while he slept. The final time he woke, Fauchelevent was clearing his throat to the empty room, and Grantaire had a heavy weight on his shoulder. He wasn’t the only one to have fallen asleep, then. He smiled, holding an apologetic hand up to Fauchelevent, who shook his head and left, candles in hand.

-

“Jesus fuck-” Grantaire abandoned his post when he looked up and saw Enjolras, nose bleeding and eye blackened, hovering behind an equally bloody Eponine. “Enjolras? Ep? What the fuck- Are you okay?” Enjolras looked like he wasn’t sure whether he was needed in holding Eponine up: she was obviously capable of walking by herself, but she also nearly walked into a table.  “Sit down, I’ll get you the first-aid kit.”

Eponine wiped her nose, checking her hand for blood and looking satisfied to only find a smudge. Enjolras didn’t seem to be having the same luck, cupping a hand below his chin to stop the blood from pooling on the table. R returned with a wad of napkins, handing them to the two injured parties before opening the kit on the table, alongside a couple of dishcloths and a cup of ice.

“That for me?” Eponine asked, pointing at the ice. Grantaire nodded so she picked it up, wrapped the outside in one of the dishcloths and pressed it against her eye.

“Did you… get into a fight? Was there a protest? I’m panicking quite a lot here, guys, and you seem pretty chill about the whole thing.”

“Enjolras was mugged, I caught the mugger, the mugger caught me with a right hook.”

“You were mugged?” Grantaire’s hands were trembling as he cut some strips of bandage, dabbing them in disinfectant.

“Eponine rugby-tackled the culprit before he’d gone fifty paces. I owe her a great deal.” He winced as he talked, a cut on his lip biting with each word.

“Here, let me…” Grantaire extended a hand, pausing before he touched Enjolras’ lip with the material, waiting for E to give permission before pressing, eliciting another wince.

“I didn’t even steal the guy’s wallet,” Eponine continued, as if trying to ignore the frankly sickening display of affection going on beside her. “Or his,” she held her thumb up, pointing to Enjolras. “Not one penny.”

“Valiance, Eponine?”

“Oi, I saved his ass for you, you could try being nice to me.”

“You were stupid, ‘Ponine!” Grantaire dropped his hand from Enjolras’ injury, wheeling on her. His outburst made a couple of heads turn, though their interest dropped when they saw who it was. The three were known to be prone to loud outbursts.

“I’m always stupid, you know me.” Eponine mussed her hair. “Stupid decisions, stupid life choices.”

“It was fucking dangerous, and anything could have happened.”

Eponine laughed, dismissing. Then she looked at Grantaire and slowly sat up from her slouch, cool, disinterested disdain turning to frown. “Are you crying?”

“Fuck-” Grantaire turned away, angrily wiping at his eyes. “You said you wouldn’t do this to me, Ep.”

“Dude, I’m okay, I don’t even think my nose is broken… and the eye’s just a bruise, it’ll heal in like a day…”

“I know, I know, but what if the guy’d had a knife, or he’d… he’d…” Grantaire sighed, attempting to breath normally. “I don’t care about your shitty valiance, Eponine, I don’t want to see you hurt trying to rectify your past or some shit like that.”

“Grantaire…” Eponine’s eyes slipped from Grantaire’s face to his hand, where at some point, Enjolras had gripped hold, interlocking their fingers. Enjolras’s voice was soft, much softer than Eponine had ever heard it, and he had the eyes of someone whose only desire was to protect.

“God, you guys need to just kiss already, fuck.” Eponine fell back into her seat, pressing the ice cup against her forehead, watching as the two dropped one another’s hand, looking away. “I was right prepared to apologise and everything, and then Mr. Blond here comes and diffuses the whole situation in a fucking heartbeat.”

Their eyes cast down to the table, guiltily, in eerie synchronicity. Almost like when Marius and Cosette were attempting to hide a  surprise from Eponine.

“...”

Eponine sat up, eyes darkening. “No way.” She shook her head, looking numb. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Grantaire was starting to smile, though Enjolras continued to bore holes into the table. “Since when?”

“Fresher’s week, wasn’t it, the first time?” Enjolras nodded like he was placing his neck in the guillotine.

“What?”

“I was talking to a girl in the SU and Enjolras was pissed out of his mind...” Grantaire’s smile was stretching to a grin as E’s face started to redden. “What was I supposed to do when such an attractive man was staring at me, interrupting my chat with this charming girl to the point where even she pointed out that there was a creepy guy giving me the eye…”

“You’re fucking with me. The mugger hit my head too hard and I’m in a coma and coma-Grantaire is fucking with me.”

“Oh, the passionate embrace of a fresher’s week fling.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras warned, finally lifting his eyes from the table, though no-less pleading than before. He winced again as he said the name, reminding himself what a sorry state he must look, his face a picture of red and black on pale skin.

“Okay, neither of us are quite sure what exactly happened in Fresher’s week, but there was definitely kissing, possibly throwing up, and very likely a lot of blacking out. Also I woke up in E’s bed fully clothed.”

“We were both fully clothed,” Enjolras added in a hasty whisper.

“And you’ve known this the entire time.”

“Beautiful, intelligent Enjolras didn’t realise until recently.”

-

Grantaire tried shaking Enjolras, but he seemed to be living up to his self-confessed reputation, that he was a heavy sleeper. That morning in fresher’s week, Grantaire hadn’t noticed, they’d both been hungover enough not to notice the time, but over the months, Enjolras had arrived at the Musain earlier and earlier, looking fresher and fresher faced each day.

Apparently Enjolras had been there for coffee every morning since about week three of first year, but Grantaire hadn’t started working there until second year, and didn’t share any of his classes, accommodations or close friends with Enjolras. Grantaire had marked the fresher’s fling relationship as ‘fated not to be’, especially since neither knew each other’s name, department… really anything, other than that R had called him ‘Goldilocks’ at one point.

Attempting to escape Javert all those months ago and running into Goldilocks was a beautiful moment, thought it became apparent Enjolras had completely forgotten who Grantaire was. Not that it mattered, it would hardly be a fairy-tale romance if they’d gotten together because they’d made alcohol-induced doe-eyes across the SU’s dance floor the first time they’d met.

Instead, Grantaire was willing to play the long game: he knew Enjolras had to be attracted to him at some level, he just had to chip away slowly at E’s restraints. Except Enjolras was polite, and less-fuelled by lust than Grantaire hoped he’d be. Grantaire was all-for a non-sexual relationship if that was what Enjolras wanted, but it was a lot harder to catch Enjolras pining without making him uncomfortable.

“If I didn’t like you so much I’d totally just stand up and watch you fall.” Grantaire snorted to himself, closing his eyes to the darkness in the room. Their tea-lights were little more than tiny wicks, fighting to stay alive in a pool of wax, and soon they’d be plunged into darkness. He stroked a thumb across Enjolras’ knuckles, smiling to himself. “This would be so much easier if you remembered.”

“It was you.”

Grantaire jumped, his whole body clenching, eyes opening in shock. “Jesus, give a man some warning, E.”

“You knew it was me.”

“You’re kind of hard to forget.” Grantaire laughed, highly aware of how ridiculous that sounded.

“Did we have sex?”

“Woah, okay, right in there with the sensitive questions, no,  I don’t think so.”

Enjolras let out a relieved sigh, continuing to nestle his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. “You recognised me that day outside of the Musain, didn’t you. ‘Girl Code’, Javert.”

Grantaire nodded, not wanting to sound too much like an obsessive creep when it was still clear that Enjolras hadn’t had an ‘oh my god this is that gorgeous man I slept with’ moment.

“You performed at the Fresher’s Fayre.” Enjolras was nearly whispering, talking to himself like he was remembering facts before an exam. “I thought you were incredible. I followed you to the SU, where Feuilly got me drunk on free alcohol. I stared at you the entire night. We kissed. I woke up and attempted to make you coffee.”

“You put salt in instead of sugar and I said I really needed to change and ran away. ...I should have stayed.” Grantaire grimaced. “Sorry. That was stupid. I don’t want to pressure you into thinking I think events might have been different if I’d…” Grantaire felt Enjolras move his head, tilting back so he could see Grantaire’s face from his shoulder. He looked away.

“If it wasn’t entirely obvious, Grantaire, I still think you’re incredible.”

Grantaire really hoped the candles were casting some reddish hues on him right now, because he would need help masking the blush of the century.

“You’re so frustrating, you’re the least cool person I know the entire time I come into contact with you, and then it comes to moments like this and you just-” Grantaire separated the fingers that had still been interlocked, lifted his hand to Enjolras’ face and unceremoniously covered it, forcing him to look away, feeling Enjolras’ mouth up-turn into a smile as he did so.

Enjolras retaliated by feeling Grantaire’s hand from his face and keeping hold of it. “Will you walk me home, Grantaire? I’d like to attempt making coffee again.”

-

Grantaire wasn’t sure whether he was more angry at Enjolras for being put in harm’s way, or that his kiss still tasted faintly of blood, even several hours after they’d left the Musain. Either way, his hug was more protective that night… and it was novel to watch Enjolras debate with himself over whether the pain of his lip was worse than Grantaire teasingly pecking the corner of his mouth. Grantaire decided it wasn’t sadistic if it was considered payback for all the times he’d wanted to kiss Enjolras over the countertop.

Enjolras decided the pain was worth it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Part two to come, same Universe, focused on Valvert.


End file.
